


It's Finally Time We Get Acquainted

by lucifers_left_earlobe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:52:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifers_left_earlobe/pseuds/lucifers_left_earlobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Destiel ficlet that started out as a prompt from my friend but ended up turning into a College AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Finally Time We Get Acquainted

The man with dark hair is sitting cross-legged at the same old tree, holding the same old book, wearing another unattractive sweater. Dean has chosen to walk a new route to his morning classes this week, opting for the more scenic view down the winding path to Classics Analysis 3001. And every day, he’s found the same man bent over the same large, remarkably old book, and had the same thoughts about him.

Today, however, his walk is different. Just as Dean rounds the corner that will lead him directly past the handsome man, a petite black haired woman perches herself in front of him wearing a wide bright grin. The man looks up and regards her with a faint upturn of his lips; Dean wouldn’t qualify that as a smile. His lips move as he speaks, though Dean can’t hear the conversation, and after a moment he returns his attention to that massive book. The small woman’s shoulders slump slightly as she says her goodbyes and shuffles off in the direction of the library.

Dean returns his focus to heading to class, trying not to spend any more time pondering the strange man. He’s pining and he knows it. Dean clutches his textbooks to his chest as he strides pass the dark haired man, taking care to ensure his eyes are locked in fixed position on the building in front of him. Behind him, Dean thinks there is a sound uncanningly close to that of a sigh, but scratches it off as the wind and continues on to class.

* * *

* * *

Dean doesn’t take the path through the woods all of the next week. It’s exams time and he’d do better to focus on his major rather than an attractive fantasy that he has let grow unchecked. Every night, Dean imagines a twisted scenario: meeting in the library, getting into a study hall together, hell, even a coincidential new roommates application that allowed the two to room together. And each of these dreams ended with Dean’s fingers buried in the man’s hair, inhaling his scent (he’s decided the man must smell like cinnamon).

He walks into his evening class, Ancient Poetry, and scans the room for a seat. There appear to be only nine students including him and he settles for a table near the back of the room. Cracking open his worn down copy of Cat’s Cradle, Dean thinks about the man’s tousled hair. He wishes he had a more accurate image of his face; he’s never even talked to him let alone gotten close enough to talk to him. He’s letting his fantasies loose when a deep, rough voice clears it’s throat slightly to the side of Dean.

“Is this seat occupied?” a man asks, a touch of nervousness coloring his tone. Dean glances up to politely tell the guy to fuck off when his words decide to transform into beach balls and lodge themselves in his throat. The man stands before him, more beautiful than Dean could have hoped. His eyes are the biggest surprise; Dean had imagined that they would be a dull shade of brown. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Looking into those crystal clear sapphires, Dean can only shake his head and jerk indicating that he can take his seat.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, plopping that massive book on the table hard enough to shake the legs. He perches himself on the edge of the seat, leaning away from Dean at a slight, uncomfortable looking angle. Perhaps Dean had forgotten to shower that morning, but a quick check reveals that his spearmint scented soap lingers on his skin. A more depressing thought sneaks into his mind from the dark recesses of Dean’s self-loathing: maybe the man already hates him, just like he knew he would.

He slumps over his book and sighs in irritation. It’s always him, isn’t it? It started with his former girlfriend Lisa telling him he’d never love anyone besides himself and his little brother, and it spiraled southward from there. Dean’s just about to get up and leave when the professor enters the room, carrying a large overstuffed briefcase of what are probably his lesson plans haphazardly thrown together after a night bathing in the benefits of wealth. Class begins and Dean is forced away from his thoughts, lulled into an emotionless state of hopeless contentment.

* * *

* * *

It’s been nearly a month since Dean first saw the dark haired man and he has yet to learn his name. He is walking the same old path to the same old building in his same old jeans carrying his same old books. It’s just one of those days. He rounds the corner and passes the library, walking directly onto the path that would likely lead him to the handsome man.

What he sees surprises him; the man is not leaning against his favorite tree in the courtyard. He’s not even sitting cross-legged below the cherry blossoms as he did when Dean first saw him. Dean scans the square for any sign of the man, the weight on his shoulders increasing when he doesn’t spot him. He sighs and continues on to his Classics class, preparing himself for another same old day.

* * *

* * *

Dean pushes open the heavy wooden door to his building and is shocked by the lack of life in the normally bustling lecture hall. He disregards it, accepting that his timeliness has shown up everyone elses. Dean walks down the steps and drops his back and books onto his seat, sparing one more glance around the unnaturally empty room. He’s about to sit down when he spots a dark head of tousled hair hidden in the corner.

He shuffles toward the out of place picture, his heart speeding its rhythm with each step in it’s direction. Dean’s a mere ten feet away when he spots the dark haired man with his knees to his chest, scanning a new book with fancy new binding, wearing a new sweater. He inches closer and before he even realizes it, he’s stooping so his face is but a foot away from the other man’s, startling him out of his fascinated daze.

“Oh, hello.” The man beams up at him, and Dean is taken away. In all his time watching the man, he’d never seen him smile so genuinely, so fully. He wants to kiss it off his face, replacing it with a different expression all together. Restraining himself, Dean settles on smiling back.

“Hey,” he answers, putting on his best ‘smolder’ as Charlie likes to call it. “I don’t think you’re in this class, buddy.” He puts a hand on the man’s shoulder, initially intending to help him up but quickly turning into a caress. The man only tilts his head and stares at him bemusedly.

“No, I don’t think so either,” he rumbles in that deep voice of his. Suddenly, the man’s book slams to the hardwood floor and his firm hands are on Dean’s knees. His face inches away from Dean’s. “But you know that’s not why I’m here.”

Those eyes, there is a blue fire burning in them. It’s as if someone had gathered the oceans, the sky, everything beautiful and everything blue, and stuffed them into two little circles. They pin him, force him to meet the man’s blunt confrontation.

“No, it’s not why you’re here,” Dean manages to garble around the growing lump in his throat. God, when did he become such a girl? The man’s smile grows and he leans away, smirking at the blush Dean feels on his cheeks.

“Well, I think it’s time we get acquainted. I’m Castiel Novak, but you can call me Cas.” He moves further into Dean’s space, the hands on his knees gently prying his legs apart so this man can situate himself between them. Cas gives him a knowing glance when he looks down at the bulge quickly forming in his jeans. Dean brings his hands to rest along Cas’s hips.

“I’m Dean Winchester. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he gets out, right as chapped, but surprisingly soft, lips slam into his own.


End file.
